Under the Skin

Many years ago I read a short story about a woman with gigantic tits that picked up hitchhikers on the back roads. I think it was set in the Highlands. To be fair anywhere outside Old Kilpatrick is a bit like the Highlands to me, but it might have been closer to home. And I do read lots. Stories blend together and become a kind of fudge-cake mix. So if someone says have you read? I kinda have and kinda haven’t because until I start reading the story again and pick over the plot I often can’t remember. This story about the woman with the gigantic tits stuck in my memory because gigantic tits usually do and because this woman that picked up hitchhikers was also an alien.

            Hitchhikers that looked in and saw those gigantic tits and said whey hey, or something similar, and accepted an offer of a lift from those life buoys felt a little prick. The passenger seat in the car was fitted with a hidden hypodermic needle that knocked them out. Next thing the passengers were locked up in some out of the way bothy. They were fed hormones and fatted up and shipped out to some alien McDonald were they were the main dish in all-you-can eat fat guy alien buffet.  

            Wow, you’re probably saying, what a great story. I’ve got to make this into a critically acclaimed film. Guys that are coming back from watching the football a little disappointed and a little pissed might be channel flicking and want to watch a film set in their native Glasgow.

            But how would you get funding for such a film? Producers like projects described in short bites. You’d need to say to them I’ve got this great idea for a film. And you’d explain to them about the woman with big tits, who is really an alien. You might laugh, a bit nervously. They wouldn’t.

            They’d ask questions about target audience. You hadn’t thought of that. All you’d thought about was big tits and aliens obviously being a winner. You’d find yourself blurting out your target audience was Bernie Kerr.

            It would be a legitimate question if they asked who the fuck was Bernie Kerr. It could take a while to explain that. So you’d just say that he was the kinda guy that could flip open the Bible and get a hard on and snigger through is nose at who was begetting who. You could probably expect them to laugh now. Everyone knows a Bernie Kerr. But they’d also be laughing at you. You expect them to commit money to film like that?

            But then you’d have that ace in the pack, you’ve already signed up Scarlett Johansson. All you need is a measly ten million quid for her fees. An old scrapper of a van that cost about £400. And the script writes itself. A couple of guys running about back roads in motorbikes looking for our Scarlett. That’s about another £5000. And listen up. Scarlett for artistic reasons has agreed to show the full beaver shot, but without the beaver, and without the lips, because we’ve all went Brazilian now, but you do get to see her tits and ass and Bernie Kerr would be sitting in the front row of the cinema…Sure-fire winner. Critical success. Must see.